Where He Left It

I've lived in a condo in downtown St. Pete for the past three years. It’s the first time I haven’t had a garage—or a parking spot right outside my door—and it took me a while to get used to that.

There’s limited street parking for residents, and most spots are a few blocks away. Even now, I sometimes forget where I parked. And since I mostly walk everywhere, a couple of days might pass before I need the car again.

It used to bother me, not knowing exactly where it was.
Now I find it almost funny.

That’s where this story began—with a memory of my first few weeks here.
Luckily for me, the city stayed exactly where I left it.

Where He Left It

He parked just past the bakery with the blue awning—just beyond the postbox, near the tree. The leaves had tapped against the roof—dry, whispering—like something trying to be heard without interrupting.

The next morning, the tree was still there. But the postbox had shifted. Or the bakery had. The awning was green.

He stood blinking. Not alarmed—just holding the quiet shame of misremembering. He walked a little way, then farther. Found the car near a florist he didn’t recall. Must’ve been distracted. That’s what moving did: turned corners into suggestions.

He’d come to the town because people said it helped. Not with anything specific. Just helped. A place for fresh starts, as if the town itself might cradle what was broken and quietly piece it back together.

The next morning, the car was gone again.

He retraced his steps. The bench with iron slats now faced the other way. The bakery had a yellow awning. The street sloped where it hadn’t.

 He found the car three streets over, parked beside a red post box he almost recognized. He got in and sat for a while, before turning the key. He'd taken a photo the night before. Same curb, different shadows. It hadn't helped.

On the third day, he parked with intent. Counted the steps back to the flat. Noted where the pavement lifted near the lamppost. Pressed his thumb along the key’s edge. Reached into his jacket pocket and closed his hand around a folded receipt—creased, unread.

When he returned, the road ran the other way.

He stood still—keys in one hand, the other braced on the doorframe—like he’d forgotten what they were for.
Not metaphorically. The real kind.
The kind of forgetting that makes you write notes and stop recognising your own handwriting.

But the town didn’t feel cruel. It didn’t feel like a trick.
Just… rearranged.

He waited a moment, then asked a man with a shopping bag if the post office had always been next to the bus stop.

“That depends,” the man said, not unkindly. “On when you mean.”

After that, he stopped resisting. Walked more. Stopped keeping track of where he’d left the car.
Some days he found it easily.
Some days it found him.

He moved through the town like water—no longer expecting the ground to stay where he’d left it.

He began to notice patterns. A café would vanish. A gallery would appear in its place. Roads curved where they’d once run straight.
The tree from that first morning—if it was the same one—now stood outside his building. Its branches brushed the roof.
He didn’t wonder anymore.

Sometimes, his hand still drifted to that jacket pocket.
It was always empty now.

One morning, he passed a launderette that hadn’t been there the day before.
A woman was watering plants by the door. She nudged a pot back into place, then looked up.

“Did this used to be something else?” he asked.

She smiled. “Maybe. But it’s this now.”

He didn’t find the car that day.
But he didn’t need it.

He walked.

The town moved with him—not ahead, not behind.
Just slightly open, as if it had been waiting for him to stop searching.

He turned a corner.

A breeze lifted the edge of a napkin on an empty café table.

It wasn’t where he left it.
But it was still there.

P.S.
If you enjoyed this story, I’ve just published a whole collection in a similar key—quiet, reflective, a little off-center.
The Shape of Silence is available now—and currently on sale—on Amazon.